I felt especially safe in the angular bedroom with its creaking bed, sloping ceiling and tiny dormer window. For the next twenty-four hours, I hid out there, crying a little, sleeping a lot and trying not to wonder what James was doing. Once, I picked up my phone and had dialled half his number before catching myself.
But I knew I couldn’t hide for ever. Nervous, excited, with just an edge of sadness, I took a brisk shower, smoothed the creases out of my smartest clothes and turned up for work.
~~~
Amelia greeted me with business-like enthusiasm, and proceeded to extract more than her money’s worth that first afternoon. I purged paper piles, printed property handouts, sorted invoices and more. Together, we unearthed the wood of her desk from below stacks of files. We created a to-do list for each of us, filled a recycling box and found three large cheques which had never been paid into the bank. The phone rang more or less constantly and I stumbled through the enquiries as best I could.
At five minutes to five, Amelia pointed to the clock with a shriek. ‘Quick!’ she cried. ‘Can you pop across to Brian at the bakery?’ She pulled a ten-pound note from her purse and pointed apologetically to her shoes, which were not ideal for a last-minute sugar sprint.
When I returned with hot drinks and sandwiches a few minutes later, I saw with satisfaction the progress we’d made.
‘So, how are you doing?’ Amelia asked, sinking into her chair with relief. She seemed less frazzled than before.
‘Okay, I think. Shouldn’t you be the judge of that?’ I offered her first pick of either cheese or tuna.
‘Well, the sooner you can get to know the properties we have available, the better.’ She was tackling her tuna roll with as much enthusiasm as if it had been caviar. This woman loved her food.
‘In fact,’ she continued, ‘tomorrow you should start viewings; that will help a lot.’
‘Okay,’ I agreed, ‘and I could make sure these are current.’ I waved my cheese sandwich at the display of glossy property photos on the wall by the door.
‘Perfect,’ she nodded. ‘People keep wanting to buy that thatched house and it’s been sold for weeks.’
‘Can I add square footage to each description?’ I asked. ‘That might be a big help.’
‘I’d love that. So many of the Americans ask and I’m hopeless at maths. Just make it clear you’re estimating, not promising.’ She grinned. ‘Don’t get me sued.’
~~~
The next day was Saturday. After nine hours of property viewings, I was shattered but content as I bumped the yellow car up the track to my quirky cottage. Its solid timelessness reassured me and the windows glowed warmly in the evening sun.
I had visited ten different homes with three American families. The first two were on short work contracts, looking for year-long rentals. Their questions had covered everything from the strangeness of the plumbing and the hygiene of carpet in the bathroom to the impracticality of a detached garage and how to get cable television. Did I know about the local schools? Was it better to buy a car and sell it after twelve months, or hire one?
I had been reminded how hard it is to move thousands of miles and how mundane activities like buying groceries or doing a load of laundry became challenges. Unlike the States, England had adopted metric measurements for food and the shops now expected a PIN number to verify credit card purchases. Many of the newcomers were finding it hard to complete even basic transactions. I found myself smiling, explaining and apologising in equal measures.
The third family, a couple with a little girl and a toddler, were ready to buy a house. They, too, were experiencing culture shock and were just as bemused by the homes we saw, but they were treating the experience as a delightful adventure.
‘We’re thrilled to be here,’ the mother told me. ‘Bruce is part Irish and we’re going to track down all his relatives.’
Bruce ignored this, and told me they’d need four bedrooms.
‘I’m so pleased Bethany is going to an English school,’ his wife continued. ‘I want her to grow up with beautiful manners. English women have such poise, don’t they?’
I had a flashback of my poise on the recent day when I had stormed into my husband’s office, yelled at him in front of his team and tipped purple paint onto the carpet.
‘Um, well, if you say so,’ I muttered. ‘Now, isn’t this a beautiful staircase?’
~~~
At six o’clock, they had thanked me heartily and promised to be in touch early the following week. I’d dragged my weary bones back to the Hargraves office and made sure I hung up the keys on the correct hooks. Amelia was tidying up, humming to herself but in a hurry.
‘Sorry, darling,’ she’d said, ‘but I hate this time of year.’
‘Why?’ I’d asked, surprised. She had seemed upbeat until now.
‘It annoys the hell out of me to work during Wimbledon fortnight.’ She winked. ‘All I want to do is drink Pimms and ogle the Aussies in their white shorts.’
I’d grinned. I loved the way the British media supported their chosen hopeful, appearing to believe their own hype that a Brit could win the tournament. The inevitable national tragedy, somewhere around the quarter-finals, was a British summer tradition. This year the hopes of Britain’s housewives were pinned on the delectable Bobbie Middleton, whose long legs covered the tennis court at astounding speed. He was extremely dishy, but unfortunately young enough to be my son.
Rummaging in her desk drawer, Amelia had pulled out the Hargraves cheque book and reached for her favourite Tiffany pen. ‘Do you have an English bank account?’
‘Er, yes.’ I wondered why she was asking. ‘I never got round to closing it when James and I moved.’
‘Good,’ she’d said, writing busily, then blowing on the ink to dry it. ‘I owe you your bonus for the sale to Ted and Betsy. Obviously the deal isn’t final yet, but I thought an advance might come in handy.’
I’d smiled politely and put her cheque in my bag.
Now, though, in my little cottage kitchen with golden evening sunbeams flooding across the floor, I took it out to inspect it and did a little jig on the uneven terracotta tiles. It was far and away the easiest money I’d ever made.
~~~
Finally, I felt ready for the eccentric embrace of my family. The drive from Saffron Sweeting to my parents’ home in Norfolk was little more than an hour, so even though I had slept late on Sunday morning, I arrived before lunch time.
Dad was in the front garden, tending his roses. As I opened the car door, the pong of manure welcomed me.
‘Gracie, pet, hello!’ He downed shovel to greet me with an affectionate and only slightly stinky hug.
‘Hi dad.’ We released each other quickly, enough affection for one visit already shown. ‘Poo, you know how to have a good time.’
‘Top grade stuff, this, courtesy of your mother’s new chickens. Little sods are playing havoc with my lawn but at least the roses are lapping it up.’ He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. ‘How are you, love?’
‘Fine, thanks.’ I gave him a bright, non-committal smile. ‘Mum’s inside?’
‘Yes, in the kitchen – doing lunch.’
I headed into their small bungalow with trepidation in case I found my mother wringing the neck of something feathery. Happily, the roast was already in the oven and she was snipping up mint, so I concluded it was probably lamb.
Once again I was wrapped in a brief but surprisingly strong hug, before she released me and scrutinised me.
‘It’s lovely to see you.’ She pushed her glasses back up her nose with a minty finger. ‘We’ve missed you, poppet.’
‘Me too,’ I said, stealing a raw carrot and perching on the little stool at the end of the counter. Their kitchen had been designed in the eighties. It boasted patterned tiles, Flotex carpet and even a serving hatch to the dining room. Usually I get a strong urge to redesign it, but today the familiarity was comforting.
Mum looked at me a little longer, but sa
id nothing and reached for the olive oil. I hadn’t really thought how I was going to break the news about James. Would it be easier to tell her while we were on our own in the kitchen, or wait until later? As usual, I chose to postpone the difficult conversation.
‘So, how are the chickens?’ I asked instead.
‘Oh, wonderful! So funny, they all have their own personalities.’ She manoeuvred a roasting tin of potatoes into the oven and kicked the door shut. ‘Would you like to meet them?’
I didn’t especially want to add my mother’s chickens to my circle of best friends forever, but it reduced the chance of awkward questions and I could tell she was proud to show me her ladies. So, off we went outside, where I was introduced to each chicken in turn. My garden tour also included the compost heap, where a badger had been spotted last week. I wondered privately if the tourist board should be informed and whether there was any danger of this overshadowing Buckingham Palace on the tourist trail.
As we came back inside, my father appeared. Thankfully, he had scrubbed up a bit and changed his chicken-poop shirt for a clean one.
‘Fancy a sherry before we eat, Norah?’ He tipped smoky bacon crisps into a bowl to accompany their aperitif.
I sank quietly into their Sunday routine, and dutifully had two helpings of lamb. We also made a huge dent in a rhubarb crumble and both of them had two glasses of wine.
‘Thank you, that was lovely,’ I said politely.
‘You’re welcome, love.’ Mum smiled at me and picked up the custard spoon to lick. ‘We’re sorry James couldn’t join us.’
I decided I might as well get it over with.
‘I don’t know quite how to say this.’ I looked down at my lap and twisted my floral napkin. ‘I think I’ve left him.’
There was a shocked pause and my father shuffled his feet under the table.
‘Oh, Gracie.’ My mother recovered first. ‘We thought maybe something was wrong.’
In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought.
‘He had an affair,’ I blurted. ‘With someone at work. I was designing her bedroom. I’m going to spend a couple of months over here.’ This all tumbled out in a rush.
A short, inscrutable look passed between my parents, then dad patted me on the hand and stood up. ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ he said, and retreated to the kitchen.
Now my news was out, I felt calmer. It was better they knew.
My mum seemed to be searching for the right words. Eventually, she said gently, ‘Gracie, I know this might seem like the end of the world, but it isn’t. Things will turn out okay.’
‘Thanks, mum.’ That was all I could manage, before the tears filling my eyes rushed down my cheeks.
Mum gazed out of the window for a couple of minutes, either pondering her next sentence or admiring the feathered ladies. Then she asked, ‘So you’re with Harry and Jem? Some girl time and shopping?’
‘Not exactly, no,’ I confessed, and explained briefly that I had stationed myself in solitude in Saffron Sweeting. ‘And, mum … I really don’t want James to know I’m there.’
‘Grace! Why –’ She began to interrupt me, but stopped, nodding slowly. Her face was compassionate.
To acknowledge her support, I volunteered a few more details about my new living arrangements. By the time I could tell I’d eased my mother’s concern, dad was back with our tea.
‘It’s a shame, I always thought James was such a clever chap,’ he said mildly. ‘The only thing I didn’t like was that he took you to America. At least you’re not five thousand miles away any more.’
Leaving my family to move across the Atlantic had been hard, but James and I had been determined to treat our move like the incredible opportunity it was. We’d been able to try things, like skiing and wine tasting, that weren’t common in England. James was sportier than me, but he’d led me down the green runs at Squaw Valley and slowed his pace for bike rides at Crissy Field. His career had thrived in the innovative culture of Silicon Valley and even though I’d struggled to find a job I enjoyed, California had been a fun place to live. Throwing in the towel had never occurred to me until the stepladder day of a few weeks ago.
Mum shot my dad a sharp look. ‘Well, you know how misguided men can be, Geoffrey. He’s not as clever as we thought, if he did this to our beautiful Gracie.’
Dad looked suitably chastised and busied himself tormenting the tea bags in the pot. I wiped my eyes on my napkin and averted them from my wedding photo on their sideboard. I didn’t know if it would still be there next time I visited. From my mother’s stern expression, I suspected I would return to find professional portraits of her new poultry instead.
CHAPTER 9
My emotions concerning my marriage may have been raw, but at Hargraves & Co, my head was clearer. I could already see I had made a positive contribution to Amelia’s working life. The office was now tidy, with flowers and quality magazines in our small reception area. We had US-friendly details for all our houses. Messages – and cheques – were no longer buried. Amelia had more time to do what she did best, which was to negotiate great deals for her sellers.
I had asked her why she hadn’t hired an assistant before.
‘Had one,’ she’d replied breezily. ‘She walked out in the middle of Easter weekend, when she found out her fiancé was shagging her twin sister. Total nightmare.’
‘That’s horrible!’ I was shocked. ‘Ugh, what a betrayal!’
Discovering James was having an affair with a client was one thing, but I couldn’t imagine the pain of him cheating with a sister.
‘You’re telling me. Busiest weekend of the year. Cost me a sale, I’m certain.’
Clearly, our definition of the ultimate betrayal was a little different. Nonetheless, a smile tugged at my cheeks. Amelia might have been a self-declared mess after her divorce, but she was strong and sassy now.
My unofficial role at Hargraves was to act as buyer’s advocate, touring homes with them, answering questions and pointing out the advantages of each property. This I did with enthusiasm and honesty, but I didn’t disguise the drawbacks, either. Some of my clients probably found that strange, but others thanked me for being ‘on their side’.
In the short time since starting work, I had helped sell another house, and Amelia was threatening to take me shoe shopping to celebrate.
‘I know your trainers are practical, but they don’t really convey success, darling,’ she chided me with a good-natured wave of her toe.
We were doing market research on the internet while keeping one eye on the tennis scores.
‘But they’re smart trainers, not like something the ballgirls are wearing,’ I replied. It was true: mine were a slim style, pale blue with suede details – not a sexy shoe, but respectable for the office. I distracted Amelia by pointing to the slide show accompanying one of our competitor’s listings. ‘Do you think this yellow kitchen will sell?’
For a few minutes, we discussed the merits of magnolia over sunflower paint.
‘Ever considered a career in home staging?’ Amelia asked me. ‘It’s a close cousin to interior design and you certainly have an eye for what buyers want.’
‘Well, obviously, I love that kind of stuff …’ I rubbed the crease which had involuntarily appeared on my forehead. ‘But I wasn’t much good at getting people to pay me for it.’
She raised one perfect eyebrow. ‘Maybe you just didn’t give it long enough.’
‘Yeah, well, my courage kind of left me when my husband slept with my best client,’ I sniffed defensively. ‘Puts you off, you know?’
‘Sorry,’ she said, and studied her cocktail ring.
I knew she didn’t mean to upset me; it’s just that Amelia didn’t strike me as very empathetic about the challenges of owning a floundering business. It was fine for her, all she had to do was twirl her shoe a few times, like Dorothy clicking her heels, and wealthy American home-buyers lined up at her door. She and her twirling Blahniks were probably responsible for the
weak pound too.
‘So, your husband wasn’t supportive of you running your own show?’
‘Um, no, he was really sweet about it, actually,’ I said. ‘I just couldn’t make it work.’
‘How so?’
There, she was doing that shoe thing right now.
‘Well, let’s see …’ I wondered if I wanted to discuss this. I found maybe I did. ‘I wasted a ton of money on glossy advertising, which got me precisely zero clients. That was stupid; everyone told me not to do print ads but I didn’t listen.’ I chewed on a biro, thinking back. ‘And I went to no end of networking groups. They were fun, but full of women with equally desperate situations, flogging nutritional advice or life coaching or other stuff nobody really needs. We all smiled gamely but I think we were all struggling.’
‘But people value great design, surely?’
‘I suppose so. But I wasn’t moving in the kind of circles that have big budgets. The people I pitched to seemed to think I could transform their room with five hundred dollars and a trip to Ikea.’
Amelia nodded sympathetically. ‘Not quite your target niche?’
‘No …’ Another sigh. ‘And once I lost confidence, I got so anxious, I was kind of consumed by it.’ I had made deep tooth marks in the biro and saw my hands were inky blue. I chucked it in the bin and wiped my fingers on the Cambridge Evening News. ‘Plus, it meant I was out most evenings.’
‘So?’
‘So …’ This was harder. ‘I think James and I maybe got a bit … disconnected. He saw how scared I was and he couldn’t help.’
‘Hardly an excuse to start sleeping around, though,’ she said.
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